


I Feel Safe In Your Arms (But Nowhere Else)

by Viva_Raine



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: Angst, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Crying, Dad P. T. Barnum, Fear, Gen, Headcanon: the Barnums call him "Flip", Helen Barnum is a great little sister, Hugs, Hurt Phillip Carlyle, Hurt/Comfort, I still don't understand why that has its own tag?, Insecure Phillip Carlyle, Men Crying, Mr. Carlyle is an idiot confirmed, Not a ship fic, Parent-Child Relationship, Phillip Carlyle Needs a Hug, Physical Abuse, Poor Phillip Carlyle, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective P. T. Barnum, Seriously poor boi, Worried P. T. Barnum, like a lot of it, or something like that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:01:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21796516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viva_Raine/pseuds/Viva_Raine
Summary: Everyone in the circus is well aware that Phillip Carlyle looks up to Phineas as a father figure. But only one person knows how deep the scars from his biological father really go, and only one person can heal such traumatic wounds.(AKA a Dad P.T. Barnum (TM) fic)
Relationships: Helen Barnum & Phillip Carlyle, Mr. Carlyle & Phillip Carlyle, P. T. Barnum & Phillip Carlyle
Comments: 15
Kudos: 200





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Rated T for I guess sorta graphic abuse at the beginning? To be completely clear, I'm aware that all forms of abuse are very real and I take it very seriously. 
> 
> (It gets lighter don't worry)

He knew he shouldn't have come home tonight.

He knew he should have taken up PT's offer to stay with them for a while, but the man had already done far too much for him, and he couldn't burden his residence on his family.

He knew that he didn't deserve to sleep in his own bed, in his own house, but it had been a long night and he had been too tired to make any rational decisions.

He knew he wasn't welcome, he knew that he'd messed up, and so therefore it only made sense that it was entirely his fault that he'd ended up here, under his father's whip. He wasn't fighting back. He wasn't screaming, or begging, or wailing for his mother like he'd done as a child.

Desperately, he was fighting back tears, of both rejection and pain, because if he'd learned anything from his parents, it was that Carlyle men don't cry. Carlyle men don't screw up. Carlyle men don't wander off to write pitiable plays only to come home and beg for money and forgiveness, of which they'll get neither.

Snapping the whip, merely for the reason of frightening his son further, Phillip's father gripped his son's arm until his hand lost its color, and emphasized every word with a slash. "You." _Slash_. "Pathetic." _Slash._ "Son." _Slash_. _Slash_. "You aren't worthy to be called a man. You aren't worthy to be called a Carlyle, you deplorable child."

Despite the blood dripping down his back and the numbness in his hand and the pain his jaw from clenching down his screams, Phillip clenched his uninjured fist and bit out, "At least… I'm… free." But it still hurt; the childish part of him that had been longing for belonging, longing for a family since his six-year-old self had been beaten for taking in a stray bird and secretly attempting to nurse it back to health. It didn't help when he cried, or when his father made him watch the tiny creature slowly decline, deprived of his care. That'll teach you to be tough, his father had claimed. All it had taught him was that he could trust no one with his heart; that he could care for no one and nothing besides his class and his image.

"Free from what, boy?" his father mocked. "From your wealth? Your high class? Your prestige?" He'd ceased using the whip, now simply smacking Phillip's cheek to reiterate every word. Sometimes Phillip wondered if he knew the differences between sons and slaves. But no – even the slaves were treated better than this.

His face stinging from the slaps and the humiliation, – there was a part of him that would never grow out of needing to impress his father – a few burning tears escaped and trickled down his cheeks, searing an uneven path towards his chin. "From you," he choked out, risking the punishment that was sure to result from such a comment. Physical pain was a welcome distraction from the emotional turmoil threatening to unravel his life.

Slap after slap, whip after whip, he centered all his focus on the pain, letting it envelop all his thoughts. Letting himself think of nothing else, until he felt empty, like a tortured shell whose tortured mind had been left somewhere else. Or sometime else. Or had died, because it couldn't take anymore.

"Please," he finally whispered, his voice hoarse from screams he didn't remember and sobs he'd tried to hold in. "Please stop, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." It was like waking up, from a dream to a nightmare, from a fictional fairy tale to an all-too-real horror story. "Please…please…"

Without a word, his father threw him onto the ground, kicking him towards the door. "Get out of my house, you cowardly, pathetic excuse for a son." Either he'd gotten bored of torturing his now disowned son, or he smelled his whiskey calling from the other side of his mansion.

Phillip had no intention of waiting to find out, limping more or less to his feet and shuffling out the door, with blood slowly drying on his bare back and his arm around his stomach, where a boot-shaped bruise was beginning to form. Gradually, his numbed mind began to regain feeling again, but much like then circulation is cut off in an arm or a leg, there was no comfortable way to heal – his head pounded and his thoughts were overloaded with emotion; his heart burned in his chest and if it hadn't been the millionth time he'd been through the same thing, he might have wondered if this was the end. His breath was a messy, erratic pattern of labored inhales and shaky gasps, and tears leaked from his eyes without his mind's consent.

Terrified, alone, in pain, he sunk to the ground in the dirty alley, feeling his forehead burn with fever from infections already setting in, lightheaded and nauseous from blood loss, fatigue and overwhelming anxiety. Exhausted and rejected, he leaned his head against the side of a rat-infested, dirty dumpster, and cried himself to sleep.

Early the next morning, while it was still dark enough not to be recognized as he limped through the alley, he crawled into the circus medical tent and dry-swallowed as many pills as the labels allowed, hoping to ease his fever and his dizziness, and as gently as possible, attempted to treat his own cuts without waking the rest of the performers with his sounds of pain.

It wasn't by any means an easy feat - to dress and wrap the wounds on his back, while holding in the tears of stinging burns while avoiding bumping his bruised middle or tipping his spinning head – but with the aid of years of experience, he had it finished before the sun had completely risen. His goal of complete secrecy had been fulfilled; or so he had thought, when the gentle ring of Helen's high giggle resounded through the grounds, much too close to where he stood, in silence, hoping to remain hidden.

It was a vain hope, apparently, as the seven-year-old girl skipped into the tent merely seconds later; wanting to be a veterinarian, she wandered into the medical tent often. Thankfully she was alone, at least. "Phillip!" She shrieked when she saw him, exacerbating his headache and causing him to hiss in pain as she launched herself at him. "Flip, did you get hurt?"

As inconspicuously as he could manage, he placed his hand gently on his stomach, willing the pain to lessen (to no avail). "Hey, Helen! No, I'm just checking to make sure we've got all the supplies we need." It wasn't the most obvious lie, but it wasn't great either. Good thing she was only seven; she probably wouldn't doubt him.

In a manner much too skeptical for a seven-year-old, Helen artfully raised an eyebrow at him and he felt his confidence in his lie wane down a bit. "You're walking like you're hurt." With childish intensity, she squinted at him. "Are you sure you're okay?"

He smiled sadly at her, hoping that she never knew how not okay he was. "Yeah, Helen. I'm sure." Turning away so that she couldn't see how broken his blue eyes looked, he willed back tears again, fingering the hem of his shirt and whispering, "I'm used to it by now."


	2. Chapter 2

Everyone in the circus knew that Phillip looked up PT as a father figure. It showed in everything, from the way the older man trained the younger, how he supported him in his pursuit of Anne's love, how he'd run into a burning building to save him as if he'd been his own child.

Most people in the circus knew that Phillip and his biological father didn't have the greatest relationship. Some of them were aware of how he'd been abused and tortured, – on a strictly medical basis – some knew that he'd been officially disowned, and that despite that, his parents still hadn't quit trying to convince him that he didn't belong with "all the freaks." Some just assumed they didn't like each other. But either way, it was a well-known fact that if you didn't want to be glared at, run from or cried on – depending on who it was and what mood Phillip was in – you didn't mention his father within his hearing range.

But there was only one person in the circus who was aware of just how deep those cuts ran, how much a part of Phillip's life and blood those wounds had become. Well, two people – there were many things PT spared his wife from discovering, but the past of their mutually adopted son was not one of them. They were the only ones who could calm him down when he stumbled on to their porch, shaking and bleeding; they were the only ones he trusted to care for him when he felt too ill to lead the circus; they were the only ones in whom he'd confided so many of his fears and flaws, and yet they loved him anyways.

So consequently, logically, PT should have been aware of his apprentice's overwhelming fear of failure and his desire to prove his worth, but he'd had more pressingly time-sensitive matters on his mind when he'd called Phillip into his office to discuss the circus's finances. Which the younger man was more or less responsible for.

Which, in all fairness, he most likely should _not_ have been responsible for, considering that both he and PT were the creative spirits of the circus – neither of them was quite cut out for managing finances. But none the less, the task had fallen to him, and so here he was, timidly trudging through the mud in between tents, dread pooling in his stomach increasingly with every step.

Logically, he had nothing to be afraid of. PT had never hurt him; he'd never wanted anything but the best for him. He'd never forced him into anything, never lashed out at him for making his own decisions or ridiculed him for any idea he'd spoken.

And yet, fear was never logical, hence the slight trembling in his hands and the queasy electricity in his stomach that tried to fool him that he was going to be hurt. He wrapped his arm around his middle gently, willing the bit of nausea away, and repeating over and over in his mind that he was safe. Which didn't do much, when his father's yells still reverberated in his skull and the angry scars still burned on his back, but it was a start.

He'd mostly calmed himself down by the time he stepped into PT's office, having gotten his breathing under control and clasping his hands together so they didn't shake. His arms still hugging himself – although he made it less conspicuous by crossing them- he swallowed nervously and knocked on the door.

And It was a brave gesture, to attempt to appear composed, although a futile one, because the moment the door was opened, PT clapped his back affectionately, greeting him with his typical, hearty, "Phillip!" Which, in itself, the younger had no problem with, but it felt too much like his father's slaps, sounded too much like when he'd been scolded; the dark office with its musty smell and curtained windows brought back too many memories of nights spent in the basement of his own home, starving and alone.

"H-hey, PT." He tried to mask the stutter with a cough, but he wasn't sure how effective it had been. Cutting straight to the point, not wanting to elongate the meeting any more than was necessary, he asked, "Finances looking good?"

PT inhaled sharply, and from Phillip's experience, that was the universal sign proceeding bad news. "We're short this month, a lot. I've been looking at the statistics, and…" It had never been in Phineas Barnum's nature to be anything but blunt, so if he was hesitating, it was worse than bad. So much for having calmed himself down – Phillip was terrified once again.

_You've failed. You're doing horrible. What do you waste all your time on anyways? Got another stupid ugly pet you've taken in? Does something else need to die? Do you need to be punished? Why are you such a failure? I didn't raise a son who couldn't care for himself. I didn't raise a girly coward for a son._

It was his father figure's voice that guided his mind away from reliving his real father's harsh words, as he called his name, and Phillip jerked aware, hoping that he hadn't been lost in his memories for too long. "Phillip…" PT didn't seem too worried, so he probably hadn't lapsed for horribly too long, although he did look a little concerned.

 _Do a better job next time, Carlyle,_ he scolded himself, sounding way too much like his father.

"Phillip," PT repeated, when he was sure he had his apprentice's full attention. His expression was unreadable, besides for his eyes that leaked his apologies for what he hadn't even said yet. "The crowds are… smaller, when you do the show. Not as much profit… not _enough_ profit."

_Not enough, you're not enough. You're not good enough, you aren't worth it._

"I-I know."

He couldn't get any more words out, past the panic in his throat.

PT didn't seem to notice, slamming the desk, and making Phillip jump. "I'm going to have to…"

_Send you away. Punish you. Make you work harder. Give up on you. Stop pretending you were ever worth it._

This was it; this was the end. He was going to be rejected, and cast out, and made to choose between the torture of the streets or the torture of his own parents. This was the moment when everything he'd childishly hoped to gain from the relationships he'd built came crashing down.

Glancing up a bit confusedly, PT continued, "... step up and do my fair share of shows, I suppose." Phillip visibly sank in relief, curling up on himself a bit, although if one looked closer, he still appeared terrified. "Phillip, are you alright?"

Shrinking away until his back brushed against a dusty bookshelf behind him, Phillip shakily nodded, despite the fact that his heart was racing and his entire body trembling. "Just… just d-don't send me… don't send me away."

_Great move, Carlyle. So strong of you. So brave. Ha. Ha._

"I mean… I'll work harder. I'll do better. I'll be better. I promise." Shaking, he braced himself on the bookshelf and flinched when PT stood up. The too-familiar sting of tears burned his eyes, but he brushed them away roughly, refusing to let them fall. He'd already messed up enough.

Gently, paternally, PT stood from his creaky wooden chair and slowly made his way towards Phillip, his expression carefully blank so as not to upset him further.

To the young, terrified man, every gentle step seemed elongated and menacing, the blank look a warning sign of barely controlled anger. It was only moments before he'd be beaten, once again, treated like garbage – like an object, rather than a human being who made mistakes and had emotions too.

"Please," he whispered, fearing that if he raised his voice too high, the precarious distance he'd kept between himself and PT might be destroyed. "Please don't."

No single tears escaped him, yet there was a wet trail leaking from his eyes and down his cheek, as every part of him lamented the idea that he'd been so, so wrong. That the man he'd confided everything in was angry at him, that it had all been fake – all the affection, all the love, all the promises. It had probably all been for money, but since he was obviously such a failure at bringing in profits – after all, no one had ever liked him, why should they start now? – there was no need to keep a disowned, high class childish adult in his company. No need to be burden anyone anymore with his pathetic little needs, or to cling to the futile hope that one day he might feel accepted.

"Please," he murmured, his voice a hoarse choke, as the space between him and his greatest-dream-turned-nightmare continued to close and the time before the inevitable happened grew shorter and shorter. "Please, PT, please…"

Undaunted by the begs of the younger man, PT didn't pause. Phillip wasn't standing far from him, but he was doing his best not to make any sudden movement that might scare him further; he felt like he was dealing with an orphaned, traumatized, injured squirrel, who was always darting back and forth, trying to be useful, scampering away at the first sign of danger. Something told him that his spontaneous metaphor wasn't too far off the mark.

Still, Phillip was crying against his will, shaking, trying to squirm away. PT was close, too close, he was going to – "Please," he whispered again, sounding like a broken record repeating the same word over and over again. "Please… PT… Father… Please don't."

At that word, PT paused, a bit taken aback. Perhaps there was more at stake here than he'd realized; perhaps this was more than Phillip simply being offended that he was less popular among the crowds. This wasn't about the profit, or pride, or personal insult. This was pure terror, of being rejected yet again.

"Please what, Phillip?" PT asked gently, ensuring that his voice was as soft as if could be above a whisper. He reached his hand out to rub his nearly-adopted son's shoulder, but he flinched away harshly, whimpering before PT's hand came anywhere close to him.

"Please…" He shuddered violently, collapsing against the wall, and for a moment PT feared that he would pass out, his near hyperventilation making lack of oxygen a real possibility. But distracting PT's worries, Phillip hugged himself fiercely, protectively, and inhaled shakily. His voice was almost too small to make out, and if it hadn't been for PT's sneaking suspicion that he already knew what was wrong, he might have missed it. "Please… please don't hit me."

And even though he'd already suspected it, it still hit PT just as hard, that the man – the teenager, really – that he loved as his son, would be reduced to this, merely at the fear that he would be hurt by him. What had those monsters done to his child, to curse him to live in such constant fear? What lies had they fed him, that he was so sure he had to prove his worth? What had they threatened to do; what had they _done_ , that he was so sure he'd be sent away for such an unavoidable thing?

It made PT sick with anger; made him burn with revenge, but neither would help Phillip at the moment, so he did his best to channel it into affection. "Phillip… Phillip. I'm never going to hurt you. Ever." Phillip's eyes opened slightly from the frozen flinch he'd been paused in, and he uncurled himself a bit, and although the angry flash in his teary blue eyes was an improvement from the empty fear that had been there before, it was hardly a reassuring one.

"You already did." It was a near-silent mumble, but in the silence of the office, PT managed to hear it, and it broke his heart even further. Of course he had. Of course he had messed up and hurt one more person in his life that meant the world to him. It was what he did best, wasn't it? In that mad dash of emotion when he'd felt the thrill of being noticed. Of being loved by the world. It was a beautiful feeling, he wouldn't lie. It was something he'd always dreamed of; to be recognized for his talent and creativity across the globe.

But it hadn't been worth this.

"Phillip, I'm so sorry, Phillip. I didn't – I meant to…" There wasn't really any way to apologize, or to hope for forgiveness, or to make things right. There was no way to undo what had already been done, and no way to pay for mistakes that had been made. He sighed, deeply, and watched Phillip untense a little more.

"I'm going to touch you now, Phillip, is that ok?"

The younger man nodded slightly, still shaking, still crying, still obviously terrified, but the moment that PT's hand touched his shoulder, he collapsed against him, holding nothing back as he cried into his father figure's shoulder while PT held him as best he could.

He shook against him, and PT gently rubbed his hand up and down his back. "You know we all love you, Phillip."

With too much bitterness for such a soft, gentle man, Phillip scoffed. "That's what my parents said too, when they'd only known me for a year."

And PT had no answer to that, except to pull him closer and let him lean on him while he let go of all the emotion he'd been bottling up for years. "Oh, Flip…" he murmured, reverting to the nickname his daughters used when referring to the young man they'd adopted as their older brother.

A sad smile crossed Phillip's face briefly at the term, before he buried his face closer into PT's shoulder, seeking out all the comfort he could find; the comfort that he'd been deprived of for all twenty-one years of his life. He should have felt so insecure, so vulnerable, so childish. He should be hearing his father's voice screaming in his head that he was pathetic, useless, weak. He should be shaking and crying out of fear, and not relief.

But instead, for some reason, in the arms of the man who had become like his father, Phillip Carlyle had never felt more safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews make me smile :) 
> 
> (and I could really use smiles right now :P )


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